William W. Stuart - Inside John Barth.pdf - William W. Stuart - widez2

Inside John Barth

Stuart, William W.

Published: 1960

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org

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Transcriber's Note: This e-text was produced from Galaxy Magazine,

June, 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.

TAKE a fellow, reasonably young, personable enough, health perfect.

Suppose he has all the money he can reasonably, or even unreasonably,

use. He is successful in a number of different fields of work in which he

is interested. Certainly he has security. Women? Well, maybe not any

woman in the world he might want. But still, a very nice, choice selection

of a number of the very finest physical specimens. The finest—and no

acute case of puritanism to inhibit his enjoyment.

Take all that. Then add to it the positive assurance of continuing youth

and vigor, with a solid life expectancy of from 175 to 200 more years. Im-

possible? Well—just suppose it were all true of someone. A man like

that, a man with all those things going for him, you'd figure he would be

the happiest man in the world.

Wouldn't you?

Sure. A man with all that would have to be the happiest—unless he

was crazy. Right? But me, Johnny Barth, I had it.

I had all of it, just like that. I sure wasn't the happiest man in the world

though. And I know I wasn't crazy either. The thing about me was, I

wasn't a man. Not exactly.

I was a colony.

Really. A colony. A settlement. A new but flourishing culture, you

might say. Oh, I had the look of a man, and the mind and the nerves and

the feel of a man too. All the normal parts and equipment. But all of it ex-

isted—and was beautifully kept up, I'll say that—primarily as a locale,

not a man.

I was, as I said before, a colony.

Sometimes I used to wonder how New England really felt about the

Pilgrims. If you think that sounds silly—perhaps one of these days you

won't.

THE beginning was some ten years back, on a hunting trip the autumn

after I got out of college. That was just before I started working, as far off

the bottom as I could talk myself, which was the personnel office in my

Uncle John's dry cleaning chain in the city.

That wasn't too bad. But I was number four man in the office, so it

could have been better, too. Uncle John was a bachelor, which meant he

had no daughter I could marry. Anyway, she would have been my

cousin. But next best, I figured, was to be on good personal terms with

the old bull.

This wasn't too hard. Apart from expecting rising young executives to

rise and start work no later than 8:30 a.m., Uncle John was more or less

all right. Humor him? Well, every fall he liked to go hunting. So when he

asked me to go hunting with him up in the Great Sentries, I knew I was

getting along pretty well. I went hunting.

The trip was nothing very much. We camped up in the hills. We drank

a reasonably good bourbon. We hunted—if that's the word for it. Me, I'd

done my hitch in the Army. I know what a gun is—and respect it. Uncle

John provided our hunting excitement by turning out to be one of the

trigger-happy types. His score was two cows, a goat, a couple of other

hunters, one possible deer—and unnumbered shrubs and bushes shot at .

Luckily he was such a lousy shot that the safest things in the mountains

were his targets.

Well, no matter. I tried to stay in the second safest place, which was

directly behind him. So it was a nice enough trip with no casualties, right

up to the last night.

We were all set to pack out in the morning when it happened. Maybe

you read about the thing at the time. It got a light-hearted play in the pa-

pers, the way those things do. "A one in a billion accident," they called it.

We were lounging by the campfire after supper and a few good snorts.

Uncle John was entertaining himself with a review of some of his nearer,

more thrilling misses. I, to tell the truth, was sort of dozing off.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a bright flash of blue-green light and a

loud sort of a "zoop-zing" sound. And a sharp, stinging sensation in my

thighs.

I hollered. I jumped to my feet. I looked down, and my pants were

peppered with about a dozen little holes like buckshot. I didn't have to

drop my pants to know my legs were too. I could feel it. And blood star-

ted to ooze.

I figured, of course, that Uncle John had finally shot me and I at once

looked on the bright side. I would be a cinch for a fast promotion to vice

president. But Uncle John swore he hadn't been near a gun. So we

guessed some other hunter must have done it, seen what he had done

and then prudently ducked. At least no one stepped forward.

William W. Stuart - Inside John Barth.pdf

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